Free A Tranquil Star by Primo Levi

grandstand: it wasn’t the moment to worry about cost. He went home and telephoned Stefania: he would pick her up at two.
    By three the stadium was full. The first entry was scheduled for three, but still at three-thirty nothing had happened. Near them sat a white-haired old man with a deep tan. Nicola asked him if the delay was normal.
    â€œThey always make you wait. It’s incredible—they act like prima donnas. In my time it was different. Instead of foam-rubber bumpers there were beaks—no nonsense. It was hard to escape without injury. Only the top players managed it, the ones who were born with combat in their blood. You’re young, you don’t remember the champions who came out of Pinerolo’s stable, and, even better, Alpignano’s. Now, can you believe it? They’re all from reformatories or from the New Prisons, or even from the prison for the criminally insane: if they accept, their sentence is commuted. It’s laughable now, they have insurance, disability, paid holidays, and after fifty fights they even get a pension. Oh, yes, there are some who retire at forty.”
    A murmur rose from the bleachers, and the first man entered. He was very young: he appeared confident but you could see he was afraid. Immediately afterward a flame-red Fiat 127 came into the ring; the three ritual honks of the horn sounded, and Nicola felt the nervous grip of Stefania’s hand on his biceps; the car aimed straight at the boy, whowaited in a slight crouch, tense, legs wide, gripping the hammer convulsively in his fist. Suddenly the auto accelerated, its tractor wheels spewing two jets of sand in its wake. The boy dodged and struck a blow, but too late: the hammer just grazed the side, denting it slightly. The driver must not have had much imagination; there were several more such charges, extremely monotonous, then the gong sounded and the round concluded with no decision.
    The second gladiator (Nicola glanced at the program) was called Blitz, and he was stocky and smooth-skinned. There were several skirmishes with the Alfasud compact car that he had drawn as an adversary; the man was skillful enough and managed to keep wide of it for two or three minutes, then the car hit him, in first gear but hard, and he was thrown a dozen meters. His head was bleeding; the doctor came, declared him incapacitated, and the stretcher-bearers carried him off amid the catcalls of the spectators. Nicola’s neighbor was outraged. He said that Blitz, whose real name, by the way, was Craveri, was an impostor, that he got himself injured on purpose, that he should change careers—in fact, the Federation should change careers for him: take away his license and put him back in the ranks of the unemployed.
    In the case of the third, who was also up against an economy car, a Renault 4, he pointed out that these cars were more dangerous than the big heavy cars. “If it was up to me, I would make them all Mini Morrises. They have acceleration, and they handle well. With those monsters of 1600 and up, nothing ever happens. They’re fine for newcomers—justsmoke in their eyes.” At the third charge, the gladiator waited for the auto without moving: at the last instant he threw himself flat on the ground and the car drove over him without touching him. The spectators shouted with enthusiasm; many of the women threw flowers and purses into the arena, and even a shoe, but Nicola learned that that move, though it looked impressive, wasn’t really dangerous. It was called “the Rudolf,” because a gladiator named Rudolf had invented it: he had later become famous, had had a political career, and was now a big shot on the Olympic Committee.
    Next, there was the usual comic interlude: a duel between two forklifts. They were the same model and color but one had a red stripe painted on it and the other a green stripe. Because they were so heavy, they were difficult to maneuver, sinking into the